Wrench
by Zerafall
Summary: Is it in his head? Is it real? He doesn't know, not really. The line between delusion and reality is more blurred than ever. Sequel to Twist.


It's not her - I tell myself that every-time I see her.

Crimson and pale, she's chained up in a separate room in my house. It's been so empty ever since dad and mom and my sisters...they...

I rest my head in my hands. I can hear her stirring in her sleep. It surprised me, before, I had no idea that Grimm could sleep. Somehow the idea that the soulless things would engage in something so mundane rings like something unnatural. But then again...

She's not exactly fully Grimm is she?

Sure, the body is Grimm, and probably the mind too. But the _soul?_ All Pyrrha. You can see it in the eyes - emerald, not crimson -, windows to the soul.

I shake my head. What am I thinking? Even if the soul is still Pyrrha, it's not her. The soul, whatever it is, isn't everything. You can't just, _coax_ the person out of something like the not-Pyrrha bound to the bed in front of me. People have tried. People have _failed_ , often to fatal results.

And yet...

I shake my head, unwilling to head to that avenue of thought. Instead, I continue gazing at the dozing not-Pyrrha in front of me. I trace her curves, still hidden behind the rags that I bought her in, roughly a day ago. My hands twitch towards her for a seconds, and something ugly stirs in my chest.

The room is hot. And there she lies on that ruffled bed - crimson and pale. I lick my lips. The walls are a deep baby blue, and I feel like they're closing in on me. I half-stand, leaning in - suddenly out of breath.

Not-Pyrrha stirs.

I sit back down, letting out a rattling exhalation, palms caressing my eyes.

* * *

Green eyes. I gulp.

 _It's not her_.

She's awake. It was a sudden thing - one second she was insensate and docile, the next she's thrashing at her bonds, snarling at the world with such hatred that for a second I think I'm looking in a mirror.

Eventually even that behavior shifts, turning into something colder, more patient - more intelligent. It'd more disconcerting. It's like she's waiting for the right moment, to strike, to kill.

It takes everything I have not to kill her right then and there.

But it also awakens something in me, I realize, the ugly beast in my chest snarling in desire as the tension in this suddenly too-small room thickens so much that you could cut it with a knife.

I _like_ it. I like how she looks like she wants to tear at my throat with her teeth. I like that she wants nothing more than to strangle me with those pale fingers.

I like that she hates me just as much as I hate her.

Not-Pyrrha narrows her eyes at me, and I wonder if she can peer into my thoughts. If she can see that she is not the only monster in this room. I match her gaze, and she is the one who looks away.

I flash her a satisfied smile, rising from my seated position, and stalking over to her. She looks up at me, body tensed up as if in preparation to pounce and slaughter me right then and there, even though her hands are bound.

I flash her another smile, decidedly more threatening, and flick my eyes to the sheathed sword I have clenched in white-knuckled grip. I think I see her eyes flash in recognition, and her posture relaxes in an almost non-threatening manner.

She watches me like a hawk, as I go to stand, towering over her.

Crimson and pale - my hands twitch. Big green eyes watch me, so hollow. Familiarity and unfamiliarity surging together to create something monstrous and painful.

She shifts, looking at me with a hungry expression, I give her a tight smile in response, hand straying from the grip of my sword and instead heading towards her red-locked head. She snaps at me in warning, glaring.

I don't stop.

And I don't flinch as she bites my hand. She wrenches with her deceptively-blunt looking teeth, tearing though the fabric of my glove; but failing to penetrate through my Aura.

I almost smile, as I tear my hand from her maw. She looks at me, an almost triumphant expression on her face.

That is, until I stretch my hand towards her once more.

She's faster on the uptake this time, more brutal too, seemingly taking my lack of action towards her as encouragement. Her teeth grinds on exposed flesh, sneering green eyes flashing with hunger through the mouthful of my hand she's got in her mouth.

I tear my hand from her mouth again, and her hand follows me all the way.

I smile at her, warmer and colder than I have in years.

And I extend my hand again.

We spend the day like this, with me attempting to pat her head, and her attempting to tear my head off. Eventually my Aura sputters to a close - she looks almost disappointed at that. Until I extend my hand, in the by-now, familiar movement.

It takes her a second longer than usual to snap at my hand.

Crimson and pale, meets crimson. I smile at her, as she stares at me, powerful teeth sinking into flesh, crunching on bone.

I tear my hand from her in an explosion of viscera. My laughing eyes meet her alarmed green ones.

I extend my savaged hand, once more, aiming for her head.

Drip. Drip. Drip. My blood drips all over her rages, all over her face, and then all over her hair. Crimson fading over crimson. My pulse quickens. I'm closer than I've ever been.

I touch her head. Her hair is course, like sandpaper. It feels horrible and not at all like silk. Probably smells terrible, too. But I'm not suicidal enough to check, yet. Despite that I keep rubbing, shoulders sagging.

She closes her eyes, butting her head against my savaged hand.

Something wet trails down my cheek.


End file.
